


Smoke Signals

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Transistor (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Pre-Canon, Unrequited Crush, and in which Red answers very few questions, forgetting how to do things she's usually good at bc she's talking to a pretty girl, in which Sybil has the quintessential lesbian experience:
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-04-26 02:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14392128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: Sybil Reisz meets a singer with hair like fire, eyes like sapphires, and a will like steel.





	Smoke Signals

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't... mistake this for Sybil/Red positivity. I'm far more interested in exploring exactly why these two _aren't_ able to forge a connection.

Festivals like these are some of Sybil’s favorite events. In an ever-changing city like Cloudbank, it’s crucial for new artists to find their niches while their novelty makes them fresh; otherwise the next wave of newcomers sweeps them out of the public eye and they fade into obscurity without their art ever reaching the people who need it. Which means that these festivals need to be planned down to each last detail—gallery paths carefully laid out, artisanal refreshment stands placed in strategic locations, set lists ruthlessly pruned and carefully ordered—so that like leads into like, guiding audiences from what amuses them to what speaks to them until they stop dead with the sense that they’ve discovered something life-changing. And all this has to be done subtly, all the scheming and artifice concealed in frivolity and the air of spontaneity, so that the targets (Sybil doesn’t mind calling them that, _targets_ , because what she wants for them is joy) never realize that their sense of miraculous revelation was planned from the beginning.

It’s an absurd dance, but Sybil _loves_ the challenge.

()

There’s a knock on Sybil’s office door, and she looks up from her terminal to see a young woman with crimson hair standing with her hand on the doorjamb.

“Sybil Reisz?” the woman asks. “I received a message about my demo for the festival.”

“Ah, you must be Red!” Sybil sends a warm, welcoming smile her way. “Thank you for coming. Come right in!”

She tilts the terminal screen out of the way and gestures towards the chair on the opposite side of her desk. Red inclines her head, her wavy hair sweeping across her shoulders, and takes a seat.

“Which came first?” Sybil asks, a lighthearted question to break the ice. “The name, or the hair?”

The singer answers with an indulgent smirk; her eyes are startlingly blue. “That’s a secret,” she says, mischief in her voice.

It’s a weird thing to keep secret, but her reticence doesn’t quite surprise Sybil. Red had filled out only the bare minimum of the questionnaire sent out to all the hopeful artist-participants; she’d neglected to provide even a cursory explanation behind her selections of music and linguistics, and a little digging had revealed that she hadn’t made her reasoning public record, either. She’d left blank, as well, the questions inquiring about her influences, her style, her intended message. Maybe this was a strategic action: Sybil and the rest of the committee had had no choice but to listen to Red’s demo recordings all the way through to figure out how she might fit into the program. But that was how they’d discovered this little snag, too, and Sybil had insisted on having the chance to try to resolve it. She smiles at Red.

“I wanted to ask about some of your music,” she says, and then offers a bit of tactical gushing. “It’s fantastic, honestly, I haven’t heard anything like it in years. I never would have expected a sound like that to come out of a school like Traverson. Did you enjoy your time there?”

Red answers with a gracious smile of her own. “It was a bit of an interesting fit, but I did.”

“Did you write the songs on your demo while you were at school? I suppose it hasn’t been so long since you graduated.”

“Most of them, yes. Though I’ve been reworking a few of them recently, with a new… perspective.” She emphasizes the last word with an evocative lift of her eyebrows, confirming Sybil’s suspicion that Red’s selections had led her to look at her art with new eyes. “I’ve been tightening up lyrics and instrumentations that I never would have looked twice at before. It’s been very satisfying.”

“That’s wonderful!” Sybil exclaims. “Everything you submitted was superb, really, just _so_ beautiful and heartfelt. I felt like you were giving listeners a window into your soul.”

She blushes a little as she says it, perhaps tipping her hand a bit more than she means to. Her enthusiasm is genuine, not just empty flattery; Red’s music had lodged into her heart and stayed there. She hopes Red knows that she’s not just trying to butter her up. It’s hard to tell what the singer thinks, though. She gives an unreadable smile and a light roll of her eyes as Sybil surreptitiously scans her face, and Sybil wonders if she’s testing her patience. Best to get to the point, then.

“It’s ‘Signals’ that I wanted to ask about,” she says, and before she can say more, Red gives a wry, knowing nod. “…You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m aware that it’s stylistically different from the others I submitted,” Red says. She folds her arms, leaning back a bit in her chair. She isn’t looking Sybil in the eye anymore. “What did you want to ask?”

“It’s beautiful, it’s a wonderful song,” Sybil assures her in a rush. She means it, but how can she expect Red to know that? She’d say the same thing to a difficult artist whose work she hated, if it helped smooth things over. But of course she can’t confess that here. All she can do is be as honest as possible. “I just don’t think it’s the right fit for this particular festival and the audience who will be there. The energy of your other songs is a better fit.”

“You’re asking me to cut it.”

“Just from this program,” Sybil answers apologetically.

“I see.”

Red doesn’t like the suggestion, and she makes no attempt to hide it; she taps agitated fingers against her upper arm. Well, what does she want Sybil to do? “Signals” _is_ beautiful, but in a way that left Sybil near tears for hours after she heard it. No one’s coming to this festival to be reminded how impossible it is to really connect with anyone else. The entire premise, the guiding principle behind the program, is that those connections _can_ be built, and marketed besides. There’s no place in it for a slow, melancholy song like “Signals,” no matter how beautiful or true it is.

“Part of the issue,” Sybil offers as Red considers, “is that it’s so unlike _everything_ else. Not just the rest of the music you submitted, but everything else we’ve received, too. It would stand out.”

“And that’s a problem?” Red asks, looking back at Sybil with an arched eyebrow. “It sounds like a good way to make an impression.”

“But is that the impression that you want to make?”

“What if it is?”

Sybil purses her lips and falls silent, momentarily stymied. And frustrated. This festival is the _wrong atmosphere_ for the emotions woven into “Signals.” She knows it as well as the rest of the committee does, but Red’s music had so seized her heart that she’d still wanted to find a place for her. How can she make Red understand that without laying the entire thought process bare?

But it’s Red who breaks the unspoken stand-off with a sigh. She makes a visible effort to relax, shifting so that her hands are lightly clasped in her lap instead of gripping her own arms. “Ms. Reisz—”

“Sybil,” Sybil interjects. “Please, call me Sybil. There’s no need to be formal here.”

“Sybil,” Red says, “‘Signals’ is very important to me. I wrote it years ago, but it’s one of the few songs I haven’t found need to revise recently. It says exactly what I mean it to. It is, as you said earlier, arguably a window into my soul. If the purpose of this festival is to find people who might be touched by my music, I want to include this one. Honestly, I’d have an easier time cutting any of the others.”

“No, the others are fine!” bursts out of Sybil before she realizes what that sounds like. Heat creeps up her cheeks as she tries to hold Red’s gaze. “‘Signals’ is, too, they’re all _fantastic_ , but the mood just… isn’t right.”

“The mood is integral to that of the set as a whole,” Red insists.

Sybil doesn’t see how that can possibly be true. It’s utterly different from the rest of what Red submitted, too introspective and too troubled by what the introspection reveals. A hint of defiance may run through all of Red’s music, but only “Signals” carries it like a burden. And the point of this program is to lighten people’s spirits, not burden them.

Another silent stand-off blooms between them, and Sybil feels strangely wrong-footed. She doesn’t know what pleasantries will smooth this over. And at some point she stopped being sure that she _wants_ to smooth this over. She’d thought this would be easy; usually it’s no trouble to talk a performer—even a stubborn one, even a challenging one—into shifting their program for the greater good. Those she can’t convince, she bosses around; this _is_ her area of expertise, after all. But the more Red resists such redirection, the less sure Sybil feels of her own instincts. And the more she wants to know just what makes Red so dead-set on this point.

“Can you tell me a little more about the song?” Sybil proposes, trying to shift the conversation out of the tense trap it’s in. “Help me understand the message you’re trying to send, and I’ll have a better sense of how we can fit it into the program.”

But Red hesitates, shakes her head. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“But—”

“My music speaks for itself, Sybil. If it can’t do that, then I’m not even half the performer I’m trying to be. And in that case, maybe I don’t deserve to be in a program like this.” She meets Sybil’s eyes. “Am I understanding correctly that that’s the choice you’re offering me? Remove ‘Signals,’ or be excluded from the festival altogether?”

Sybil falters behind her practiced smile at Red’s insight. She’s right. That had been the last resort Sybil had come armed with, an ultimatum that she hadn’t wanted to bring up because it’s always cruel to force someone into line like that. But as Red’s crystal-blue eyes pin Sybil into place now, Sybil knows without a doubt that the ultimatum would fail. If she tells Red that she can’t perform “Signals” at the festival, then Red will stand up gracefully and thank Sybil graciously and walk right out of the office. No one will get to hear her music. And Sybil _wants_ people to hear this music.

So the answer that comes out of her mouth is one without any strategy behind it. “No… no, I think we may be able to make it work somehow.”

Red’s eyebrows shoot up in an unguarded expression of surprise. “Oh!” she says, relief flitting across her face. Her bearing shifts from stiff to open in an instant. “I apologize, I misunderstood.”

“It’s fine,” Sybil assures her automatically, mind racing as she works to regain her footing. She can almost tell the truth here: “There were a few members of the committee that felt that way, but I’ll see if I can change their minds.”

“Thank you,” Red enthuses. “I’d really appreciate your help in this.”

“Of course, Red. After all, all of us just want the program to be successful.”

Which means that Sybil really has her work cut out for her. She’d already been the strongest voice in Red’s favor, and only by proposing the removal of “Signals” had she earned the opportunity to negotiate with the singer. She’ll lose face, going back to them and insisting that Red’s full set be included. But the way Red leans forward a little now, grateful and eager, has Sybil completely hooked on her presence. She wants to see Red succeed. She wants to be a part of making that happen.

The singer’s charisma pulls her in like a magnet, but she doesn’t feel like she’s been sweet-talked. She feels like she’s been won over, and she can’t regret that.

She stands to show Red to the door. “I’ll speak to the rest of the committee and explain how important this is to you,” she assures Red, wearing a sunny smile. “If this is what you want people to hear, then let’s make sure they hear it.”

The way the singer thanks her again on her way out the door—all warmth and sincerity, no artifice to be seen—leaves Sybil warm for the next hour.

**Author's Note:**

> I may yet have more to say on the subject of these two, but I'm making no promises, so this is marked as complete for now.


End file.
